


Cuffed

by skivvysupreme



Series: The Cuffed Verse [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: Cheerio Blaine, M/M, Skank Kurt Hummel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 11:32:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3409016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skivvysupreme/pseuds/skivvysupreme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Immediately following the jeans incident, skank!Kurt and Cheerio!Blaine go on their first date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cuffed

Kurt is in trouble.

He sits in the front seat of his Navigator, heart racing away from him—racing towards Blaine, if he’s honest—and pushes his gray hood backwards and forwards so that it sits _just so_ behind his upswept pink locks. He runs his hands over his thighs, feeling the soft gray fabric of Blaine’s sweatpants, then lifts his foot onto the seat so he can press his nose to his knee. Kurt smells like Blaine’s fabric softener, plus his own cologne and cigarettes, and the clean-spicy-smoky mix sets Kurt’s nerves on fire.

He’d spent about twenty minutes telling himself to stop freaking out before he realized that not freaking out was not an option. The adrenaline from wriggling out of his skintight jeans in front of Blaine, then running, pants-less, to Blaine’s locker for his spare pair of sweats has worn off, and now that Kurt’s coming down, he doesn’t feel very much in control.

That’s scary. No one does that to him. That’s another reason Blaine—no, _Anderson_ , Anderson is safer – needs to be dealt with.

“Are you ready?” Anderson has pulled his car up next to Kurt’s and is leaning all the way across the passenger seat so that he can look up at Kurt through the window.

Kurt’s leg drops, bashing into the car horn with an inescapably loud honk on the way. He takes the opportunity for a deep breath, then lets it out, sighing, “This coffee place better be decent, Anderson,” in his most bored voice. He needs to get himself the fuck together, because _I’m going on a date(?) with Blaine Anderson_ is a thing that’s really happening in this moment.

Anderson rolls his eyes, fluttering those impossible eyelashes, and sits up properly in the driver’s seat before driving slowly towards the parking lot exit so Kurt can follow.

 _A Prius_. _I’m letting some perky-ass Cheerio in a goddamn Prius make me nervous_. Kurt lights a cigarette, takes a long, calm-attempting drag, and puts his foot on the gas.

*****

“The Lima Bean?”

Anderson nods excitedly, looking around the cute little café as he steps up to the counter. “It’s so cozy. And not as crowded as Starbucks. I come here all the time.”

The barista gives him a radiant smile. “Hey, Blaine, how’s it going?”

“I’m great, Eli. How about you?”

“Oh, you know, the usual. Making coffee, stacking biscotti… hoping my sexiest regular comes in.”

Kurt snorts. “You might want to make yourself a latte before you take our orders.”

Eli raises an eyebrow.

“You seem a little thirsty,” Kurt shrugs, his eyes wide and innocent.

Anderson turns his nervous laugh into a throat-clearing rather quickly. “Eli, I’ll have my usual, plus a jumbo sugar cookie and whatever Kurt wants.”

“Non-fat mocha,” Kurt answers, taking a great deal of self-control to not look too pleased that Anderson’s paying for both of them. He sees Eli sizing him up, raising his eyebrow even higher at Kurt’s pink-streaked coif and nose ring, then glancing back at Anderson’s Cheerio uniform and hyper-neat hair.

That enthused grin Eli gave Anderson has been replaced by a polite barista smile. “Coming right up.”

“I’ll snag a table,” Kurt says, then turns on his heel and heads towards the nearest open seats. His heart’s suddenly pounding again, like his brain has just caught up with how obvious he’s being. He’s hoping Anderson will shrug it off as snarky instead of jealous.

Not that Kurt’s jealous. It just looked that way for a second. Obviously.

When Anderson reaches the table, he has one drink in each hand and a plate with a gigantic sugar cookie balanced over both wrists. “Yours is on my left.”

Kurt takes the cup—was that Anderson’s breath hitching when their fingers touched, or his own?—and thanks him, holding it between his hands on the tabletop.

Anderson sits down with the plate and his drink, then gently breaks the big cookie in half. “How was your day, Kurt?” he asks, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Excuse me?”

“How was your day, Kurt?” he repeats, with the exact same inflection and a wider smile. His eyes are amber in the warm café lights, and he looks so sweet, leaning forward with his forearms—but not his elbows—on the table. It’s clear that he’s actually interested in Kurt’s answer, which is weird, because nobody except Kurt’s father asks that question and cares what gets said afterwards.

Kurt’s eyes narrow as he blurts, “Exactly what the hell is wrong with you?”

Anderson’s nose scrunches and he laughs—fucking _laughs_ , and that is such a cute noise, and such a cute face, _how dare he—_ “What?”

“I can’t find anything besides your gel problem, so you have to tell me.”

“Me being a Cheerio, that’s not a bigger issue to you than my hair?” Anderson asks, glancing down at his uniform with a self-deprecating little grin.

Kurt swats the air dismissively. “I was a Cheerio. No, shut up, don’t ask.”

Anderson closes his mouth around his shock. “Answer my first question, then. How was your day, Kurt?”

Kurt considers this. He aced his French and biology tests, skipped calc with Quinn, shoved Azimio after Azimio shoved Tina, got yelled at by Figgins for “starting” the fight, spent his lunch period in detention, skipped American history to smoke with and rant at Quinn because that detention was bullshit, went to English literature, then went back under the bleachers. And then Cheerio practice started, and Blaine appeared.

“My day was average,” Kurt says, “until about an hour ago.”

Anderson bites into his half of the sugar cookie and pushes Kurt’s a little closer to him with a fingertip. “Mine, too. Until an hour ago.”

The cookie share is such a small gesture, but it sends that odd, bubbly warmth into Kurt’s chest again. He finally reaches for his half. “Blaine, I—“

“I like you, Kurt.”

Kurt freezes.

Blaine says it so easily. He’s leaning towards Kurt with his head tilted, but it’s not like he’s waiting for Kurt to answer with his own statement of interest. He just sits there quietly with his eyes roving over Kurt’s face like he can’t help himself from stating the truth.

_Oh, god, I’m fucked._

“You don’t even know me.” It’s the only defense Kurt has left, and it’s a silly defense at that, since Blaine seems completely intent on getting to know him and Kurt plans to do the same with Blaine. Kurt wants to know _everything_. He wants to know the exact number of freckles on the bridge of Blaine’s nose. He wants to know the name of every shade of every color in Blaine’s eyes, as there are several and “hazel” isn’t good enough. He wants to know which Disney prince Blaine crushed on as a kid, which foods he hates, which constellation is his favorite, what monsters he makes of the shadows in his bedroom when all the lights are off, what he sounds like when he comes—god, that defense isn’t just silly. It’s fucking irrelevant.

Blaine scoots his chair forward, but he doesn’t say anything, just lowers his eyebrows and watches Kurt through his eyelashes as if he, too, knows how stupid that argument was.

So, yeah. Kurt is in trouble. But he’s never shied away from trouble, and he’s certainly not going to start now.

*****

The sun has already set, temperature dropping along with it, when Kurt and Blaine head to their cars in the Lima Bean parking lot. They’re walking slowly, closely, fingers brushing and faces blushing, and Blaine’s humming along with some tune in his head.

“I’m glad I went out with you,” Kurt says when they reach the driver’s side of Blaine’s Prius. It seems apparent, but he can’t let Blaine get in his car without telling him that.

“Not as glad as I am. But I’m also glad you got handcuffed to those bleachers so I could work up the nerve to ask you,” Blaine replies, grinning.

Kurt runs a knuckle over the back of Blaine’s hand. “So… Blaine Anderson. Captain of the Cheerios, junior class president, Glee club soloist… I make you nervous?”

“Very. I’m good at acting like I know what I’m doing, but you’re… hard to pin down.”

Kurt laces their fingers together. “Well… that should be easier for you from now on.”

“I hope not,” Blaine whispers, squeezing Kurt’s hand.

Kurt can’t think of any other word for the look on Blaine’s face but _hungry_. The tingle goes right down his spine and something snaps in the air between them. Kurt presses Blaine against the car, his heart a jackhammer in his chest, and kisses him.

It’s positively _electric._ Kurt thinks the low whine is his and the high gasp is Blaine’s, but he can’t be sure, not that it matters. Their hands clumsily smack each other, trying to get to waists, necks, wrists, whatever they can reach. Kurt’s hood falls back, or gets pushed back, and suddenly Blaine’s fingers are in his hair, mashing their faces as close together as possible.

Kurt lets go of Blaine’s mouth to breathe, though Blaine doesn’t want to let him, and he chases Kurt’s lips and kisses at the corner of his mouth until Kurt takes hold of Blaine’s jaw and bites gently at his bottom lip. “Fuck, Blaine, that’s… fuck.”

Blaine shivers, laying his forehead against Kurt’s shoulder. “Yeah. Wow.”

Kurt pulls off his hoodie and puts it around Blaine’s shoulders. “Here. I was going to go home and wash these sweatpants so I could return them to you, but I like this better.”

“When did I say you could keep them?” Blaine asks, leaning back again to give Kurt a challenging, but not at all serious glare, even as he pushes his arms through the sleeves and puts the hood up over his gelled hair.

“You didn’t,” Kurt shrugs, “but I’m keeping _you_ , so.”

Blaine’s answering smile at this statement could light up the whole parking lot. “Okay.”

“See you tomorrow?”

“See you tomorrow.”

They get into their cars, each reluctant to stop looking at the other one. Blaine drives away first, and when Kurt can no longer see his tail lights, he texts Quinn:

**_I’m pissed at both of you but that wasn’t your worst idea._ **

The response he gets a minute later is not from Quinn’s phone, but from Puck’s:

**_UR WELCOME AND U CAN HAVE THE CUFFS! GET SOME, HUMMEL!!!!! ;-D_ **


End file.
